An Inauspicious Beginning
by Epigone1
Summary: An unlikely meeting place for two unlikely associates.


**Author's Note**: For several years, actually, this piece has been floating around in the back crevices of my brain (which, luckily for the world, is seldom shown the light of day) -- ever since I first heard the Kander and Ebb musical _Kiss of the Spider Woman_. The relationship between Molina and Valentin in that show struck me as being very reminiscent of the relationship between Grantaire and Enjolras; if you don't see it, go listen to "I'd Do Anything For Him". I didn't really consider writing this story, though, until I decided to reread the original play by Manuel Puig a few weeks ago. I got to thinking about what might happen if the initial contact between Grantaire and Enjolras occurred in a prison, and how that might come about, and, well, here's what came of it.   
  
  


**An Inauspicious Beginning**

  
It was night, but the darkness like gauze against the bars of his only window was hardly more pervasive or potent than the darkness inside. He could crane his neck and, at a certain angle, see the runnel of light spilling out at the other end of the passageway, but the position was markedly uncomfortable. Besides, he'd never made an attempt to avoid darkness before; he had, in fact, sought it, to all outward appearances. He lay back on his bunk-- 

Only to be startled, minutes later, from a light doze by the echo of footsteps in the corridor. It was a medley of sounds, actually, when he listened more closely: purposeful strides mingled with a murmur of harsh voices, and a raspy underscoring, as if something was being hauled in. Like a sack of grain, he thought, but he was only willing to welcome _that_ if there was someone on hand to process it into a more exciting form. His last drink had been about ten hours ago, and he felt it logical to expect the next one soon. Cover the effects of the hangover for a while, at any rate. 

The footsteps stopped abruptly somewhere in the black before him. Hearing keys jingling at his cell door, he shut his eyes again, and relaxed his muscles -- not such a difficult task, when they were obviously not keen at all on supporting him. No need to draw unnecessary attention. 

One of the jailers had a light, he knew, because now he felt a glare on his eyelids. The beam fell across him for a moment through the bars, and when he didn't stir, there was a satisfied grunt and the light was put away again. A few seconds more of fiddling with the lock, and the hinges creaked, the jailers laughed furtively, and he found a large, lanky thing draped across him quite unapologetically. 

He thought he heard the door close again, but he only dared exhale when he felt the footsteps recede and take refuge in the front room. Then he gathered his legs beneath him, braced his arms, and rolled carefully out from beneath his new cellmate. 

At first he thought that he would leave the bunk to his guest -- the man obviously needed it more, if the limpness was any indication -- and curl up damply on the floor. One place was very much like the other, he had learned, and in his present state he would barely feel the chill of the stones. But even as he tucked his chin over his knees and situated himself against the wall, he felt a stirring of curiosity about the newcomer. There was a seemingly endless stretch of time in which he shifted restlessly and told himself that it didn't matter, this man was just another grimy prisoner, and besides, his head hurt like Hell from Styx to murky Styx; then, with a sigh, he stumbled to his feet and crossed the cell to the bunk. 

Now the darkness was an inconvenience, and he stood before the vague silhouette with arms dangling, wondered if this was going to be too forward -- _Gods, you fool, he's out like some mythological metaphorical construct that I'm too sore, wit-wise, to think of right now, and he'd prob'ly appreciate a little illumination shed on the situation as well._ He hauled up the form on the slab by the shoulders and dragged it clumsily to the cell door. Finally he found the spot at which a few faint threads of light winnowed in through the bars, and he shoved his burden under them unceremoniously. 

His companion was young -- very young, too young, really, to be in a place like this. Only fuzzy impressions could be formed in the dimness, but the man had fair hair that fell in waves at the nape of his neck and spilled over the hands that supported him, a severe forehead, high-boned cheeks that cast his lower face into shadow, and his eyes, though closed, were obviously wide and well-lashed. He was damn beautiful, in a sort of impersonal way, thought the man who knelt at his side and held his head breathlessly, his mouth moving in whispered invocations and references to Ganymede and Adonis, running the whole gamut of stock figures until his lips closed on _Apollo_ and found it right. 

Apollo stirred then, turned his head sideways into the light and groaned softly. His attendant got a glimpse of a heavy bruise over one eye, a thin trickle of blood on one lip, before he gasped guiltily and jumped back so suddenly that he dropped the head from his lap. 

"Sorry," he hissed, but didn't step forward again. 

Apollo somehow stopped his fall, and, after pausing a moment to wince at the pain that rushed back with consciousness, hauled himself into a kneeling position. He blinked once, cautiously, and faced the other man, who remained uncomfortably submerged in shadow. 

"They didn't kill me, apparently. I suppose that's something to be thankful for." 

The addressed silently but fervently agreed, then asked, "Who are you?" He was gratified to find that his voice hardly shook at all. 

"Nicolas. Enjolras," said Apollo, pausing between the two words to scrutinize the other warily. "And you are?" 

"Grantaire. Well, Arnaud, but" -- he flushed -- "I go by Grantaire." 

Apol- no, _Enjolras_ seemed to find this answer satisfactory. He turned away, working his jaw slowly as if he was making sure it was still there, and put his hands on the bars. 

"I don't suppose you know what time it is." 

"Yes," said Grantaire eagerly. "Yes, I do. It's two -- no, quarter past, I think." 

Enjolras looked at him over his shoulder, a slight, surprised smile touching his lips. 

"Oh?" 

"I'm fairly certain," responded Grantaire, tucking his hands into his pockets earnestly. "Y'see, it's been near ten and a half hours--" He broke of sharply, blushing without knowing why. "Since I, ah, arrived." 

His nervousness was unnecessary. Enjolras had already lost interest in the discussion, to Grantaire's relief, and yet also to his consternation: the smile was extinguished as suddenly as it had appeared. Confused, he stepped farther into the darkness, and Enjolras glanced back down the passageway. 

There was a long silence; Enjolras seemed to be waiting for something or someone, and Grantaire, futilely trying to shake the fog from his brain and the hair from his face, couldn't come up with anything that sounded pressing enough to necessitate interrupting him. He merely leaned against the wall, stiffly, and watched the rigid Enjolras watch the door. 

At least another hour passed before Grantaire noticed Enjolras touching his swollen eye gingerly and swaying on his feet. Tremulously, Grantaire pushed off the wall and approached, knowing that the appropriate gesture would be to take Enjolras by the elbow and help him, but not quite daring to do it. 

"There -- er, there's a bunk, you know," he said softly. "You should prob'ly sit; no one's coming in here till six, and--" He trailed off as Enjolras swung about belligerently to stare at him. 

The man looked as though he wanted to say something caustic, but he either thought better of it or found he hadn't the energy for it. He nodded and shuffled across the cell. Grantaire, following uselessly, somehow got his still-unsteady feet tangled up with each other and pitched back into the wall, breathing heavily. When he lifted his gaze again, Enjolras was sitting erectly on the bunk and eyeing him with growing disapproval. 

Desperate, Grantaire sought refuge in idle conversation. 

"Um. I-I don't think... I don't mean to be... well. 'm sorry, but you don't look the sort to be tossed in here with the rest of us--" He just barely remembered to cut himself off again; it was still peculiar, this desire to impress another person, or at the very least not utterly shame himself. 

Enjolras cocked an eyebrow. 

"Why am I here, is that what you're wondering?" Without waiting for an answer, he smiled grimly and said, "Disturbance of the peace. Bordering on incitation." There was a note of covert pride in his tone. 

"Disturbance how?" prodded Grantaire. 

"Daring to speak the truth, mostly," returned Enjolras, mock-nonchalant. 

"Ah. You're one of those _republicans_, aren't you?" said Grantaire, beginning to feel hopelessly out of his league and covering with customary flippancy. "Very worthy cause. You're all doomed." He felt a momentary pang at that thought, surprisingly enough. 

Enjolras frowned harshly and looked away. 

"I can see there's no talking sense to you; you're drenched in alcohol. I can _smell_ it." He didn't notice the quickly concealed expression of pain on Grantaire's face. "And you are here for what? Drinking?" 

Grantaire gave a forced laugh. 

"Ha! No, m'sieur, as of yet imbibition of humanity's blessed nectar is not illegal." Seeing the disdain tightening Enjolras's mouth, he shifted a bit and laughed in a more subdued fashion. "This is why I should be thankful that your government is not yet in place, I gather." No amusement registered on the other's face, and Grantaire sighed. "I'm in for disturbance of the peace, like yourself, though as a result of less... wholesome activities." 

Narrowing his eyes, Enjolras snorted. 

"I don't doubt it." 

Grantaire lowered his head a little, and his hands went deeper into his pockets. 

There was no more talk. Enjolras drifted off within half an hour, and Grantaire studied the chiseled, chaste face in fascination until he too fell into a fitful half-slumber against the wall. 

Daylight slowly filtered in through the cell window, but neither man awoke until someone rudely wrenched their door open. A stocky jailer stood framed by the bars rising in black angles about him, glowering at them both for a moment before he waved an arm in Grantaire's general direction. 

"Right, time's up," he growled. "You bother anybody again, though, and we gotta much wetter cell in the basement. More pop'lar with the rats, too. And it'll be seven'y-two-hour confinement, so you just look forward to _that_." 

Grantaire blinked owlishly at him, flexing muscles sore from several hours of upright sleeping -- bad idea, that; he made a mental note not to let his magnanimous tendencies determine his actions from then on -- and throwing a sidelong look at Enjolras. With what he considered to be great dignity, he clucked his tongue and said, "My lodgings last night were not at all satisfactory, and the maid never appeared to turn down my bed, damned irresponsible girl. I shall have to speak with the manager." 

"Huh, you'll do more'n that," the jailer returned, sneering, and rattled the door. "Let's go." 

Grantaire crossed his arms and yawned. 

"I'll stay until I see some service, _merci_." 

The jailer paused, unsure about what the regulations specified for such a situation, and finally decided to let Grantaire do as he wished. He flung the door shut and proceeded to gloat rather ineffectually from the other side. 

"Fine; you c'n stay, for all it matters to me!" Grinning, he turned away. 

"I will," said Grantaire, quite solemnly, to their host's retreating back. 

Enjolras looked at him, perplexed and therefore irritated. 

"Whatever possessed you to do that?" 

Grantaire shrugged and trotted over; he considered sitting on the bunk beside Enjolras, but realized it would not be taken well. 

"Nothing out there better than in here. 'Sides, you could use some company." 

Enjolras regarded him frigidly. 

"There are requirements for 'company,' I believe -- none of which you fill." 

"Nevertheless," said Grantaire gaily, "I'm locked in again, and we'll have to make do until they see fit to come back." 

That time arrived sooner than he had expected, for another jailer came down the hall within ten minutes, this time leading a dark-eyed, shabbily dressed, harried-looking young man. The visitor's face lit up instantly at the sight of Enjolras. 

"Nicolas!" he cried, and Grantaire could see him note with displeasure the bruise and dried blood. There was a sort of anxious, grave attentiveness in the way this newcomer regarded Enjolras that suggested loyalty to the point of hero worship. It was answered by a warmth in Enjolras's formerly unresponsive blue eyes, a glow of camaraderie that, disturbingly, clenched a knot of envy in Grantaire's chest. 

"Jehan," greeted Enjolras, waiting politely for the jailer to open the door before stepping forward to clasp the other's hand. "But where is Julien?" 

Jehan, smiling widely but still surreptitiously surveying Enjolras for signs of more severe injury, raised his eyebrows and said, "He didn't sleep a wink all night, kept wanting to come out here, despite my _telling_ him we couldn't get in, even for bail, until six." He didn't look as if he'd had much sleep himself, but no one mentioned it. "Adrian's supposed to be making sure he relaxes, so I was elected to come. But the rally went well last night -- Julien said nearly forty people -- and someone -- called himself 'the Hawk' or something in that vein -- said he'd come on Fri--" 

The affectionate light in Enjolras's eyes flickered out, and he shot Jehan a warning glare. Jehan broke off, flustered, realizing that his relieved babble was veering off onto dangerous topics, and that the jailer was standing at his shoulder and listening with open interest to every word. Casting about for a way to distract attention from himself, he spotted Grantaire and held out a hand. 

"Oh. I'm sorry; didn't notice you there, m'sieur--" He paused, glancing at Enjolras as if for approval. 

"It's, ah..." Enjolras seemed to be having trouble with the name, and it nettled Grantaire: he recognized it immediately as a veiled slight. Enjolras could not have forgotten so quickly. 

"Grantaire," supplied Grantaire tonelessly, and took the proffered hand. 

"Jean," replied the other, leaving off the surname and accompanying the word with a pointed flick of his eyes toward the jailer. "Good to meet you. Enjolras?" He stepped back and gestured down the hall. "We should be going, I think...?" 

Enjolras nodded, avoiding Grantaire's vaguely accusatory gaze. 

"Yes. I'd rather not keep Julien waiting." 

They filed out of the cell, with Grantaire following after a moment's hesitation. The jailer made no move to stop him -- after all, his time had been served. He kept to the shadows even in the hall, trudging along behind the other two men, who were now deep in hushed conversation. At the exit, he kept to their heels still. 

Outside, they continued to ignore him, although only one did so intentionally, and he watched them in impassive silence until they started across the street. Something bitter and helpless grew in him then, and he raised his voice to them. 

"Nicolas!" he called, haltingly. 

The golden-haired figure looked back, and his words carried easily over the clatter of carts and the shrill cries of pedestrians. 

"My name is Enjolras," he said coldly, and continued on his way. Jehan shot Grantaire a sympathetic glance, then hurried to catch up. 

Grantaire stood on the curb, frowning deeply. All at once he had a terrible craving for a drink, immediately -- but, before he went off in search of oblivion, he noted Enjolras's final destination. The two men had turned off the street (rather too casually, really) and entered a café. It took Grantaire a moment, but he finally recognized and identified it: the Café Musain. Very bad wine. Friday, Jehan had been about to say; they would be there again Friday. He marked the building with his eyes, committing its location to memory, and finally shambled off for a cure to whatever mysterious malady was suddenly ailing him. 


End file.
